The Return
by TheNightinGaleTurk
Summary: Sherlock comes back from the his crusade of stopping the people of Moriarty. He finds himself standing outside of John's apartment wondering what it was worth to go in, he finds something that he wishes he could have stopped. Johnlock and past love mentions but no sex. John went a little mad. Sherlock being human. Have some tissues ready.


Sherlock was waiting. He wasn't entirely sure why, he felt like he had been waiting forever. But now… Moriarty's men were either dead or imprisoned, and he was free. He stood outside John's new flat. He'd been standing there for nearly an hour, having an internal war with himself. Molly said John was serious with his new girlfriend, was thinking about proposing. John was moving on. Did Sherlock have a right to encroach on him? Especially after so long? He didn't know. And so he waited, staring up at John's flat window.

Unbeknownst to Sherlock, John was not nearly as serious as Molly had let on. His girlfriend was screaming at him at this very moment, packing her things into a suitcase and yelling about his leg. He knew it was psychosomatic but he had ever since that day. "You think you are so fucking cool with your jumpers and you alcohol and your absolute bollox!" She yelled before taking her trench coat from the hook and bursting out the door. Her short dark hair was in a mess and she flicked him a bird on her way out. John wasn't sure he should stop her this time.

Sherlock leapt backwards as a rather furious woman stormed out of the flat and hurtled herself into a cab. He stared a bit nonplused at it as it took off around the corner, shocked into stillness. Sherlock glanced back at John's flat. The door was still open. He cautiously approached the open entryway, standing, frozen in the doorway.

John did not move from his spot. He stared at the fire, a beer hot in his hand. His dark circles under his eyes were tells of how little he slept anymore and how horrid the nightmares had gotten. He could hear the street noise below, meaning Cassie had left the door open. He neither cared nor wanted to close it. He heard someone coming up the stairs and assumed it was his landlord. John sighed, "I've paid the rent, Richard." He didn't turn nor was he planning to. He sat still, angry at the world around him and everyone in it.

John's back was turned. Sherlock reached a hand in and knocked softly, "I'm sure you have. You were always good at paying the rent on time. Though it would seem you've let yourself go a bit, in other ways."

John froze in his seat, his eyes felt like they had widened enough to pop out and roll away. _'No…NO…Hes dead!'_ He nearly screamed in his head. The doctor stood up and turned slowly, hoping his ears were… what did he hope? Did he want to be wrong and be disappointed yet again? Or did he want to be right relive all those painful memories and realize he'd been lied to for years?

Sherlock swallowed, his pale face lit from the firelight. His blue eyes were focused on John. He hadn't bothered to shave in a few days so there was light stubble on his chin. His shirt was clean amazingly and his hair was uncombed. "Hello John…" He whispered knowing that he would most likely be getting a very harsh left hook for this treachery.

The doctor fell. He didn't have strength in his legs anymore. The bottle that had been in his hand clattered to the ground and his vision blurred enough that he thought he was about to pass out. "Oh god, you became the grim reaper. I knew you were fascinated by death but I never thought you'd come for me one day. What, did I finally die of sleeplessness?" He let out a shaky laugh, trying to keep the angelic face of Sherlock in his view. That was what happened, Sherlock was really dead. He became a grim reaper and came to drag him to hell for not saving him.

"What on Earth are you on about?" Sherlock was in the flat in a moment, next to John, trying to pull him up. "Have you gone mad? There's no such thing as grim reapers, for one thing. For another I'm not dead, I was never dead. Not to mention you are drunk." He helped him from the floor to the couch. John looked up at him with alcohol glazed eyes.

"See? You are dead. Because you're cold." John knew he wasn't drunk yet, he'd have to have three more drinks for that to happen. Nor did he realize that it was snowing outside. "I'm not mad. You are dead. I saw you jump." Sherlock sighed, "I'm cold because it is the middle of winter and I've been standing outside for an hour. I'm not dead. Even though I did jump, I didn't die. It was… a magic trick."

John looked up at him with blurred eyes. "You had no pulse. I tried to help. Bring you back. They wouldn't let me through the crowd. Why did you make me watch that, Sherlock… Why did you j-jump…" Tears started coming down and he clutched at Sherlock's clothing. "I've been through wars and I've never been hurt that badly before…" He stuttered out the last few words.

"It was a magic trick, John. I… I did try to tell you. I had to die, or at least appear dead. There was no choice." John couldn't concentrate. "You bastard, you have any idea what you did to me? The memories?" He choked and hugged the man. "You kept dying, even in the daydreams…" Sherlock felt his chest tighten and he hugged him back. _'You nearly killed him…'_ The once detective thought to himself as John shivered in his arms. "I had to… I _had_ too… Moriarty's web needed to be stopped."

"Just… drag me to hell already…" He laid his head on Sherlock's chest. "You died, damn it. No pulse, no breath, I HELD your HAND when they carted you away! You jumped off the fucking roof and had me WATCH. I couldn't save you! I loved you more than anything, damn it!" He shook Sherlock before letting go and stepping away from him. Tears still in his eyes he walked to the window. Putting his head against it, he tried to actually make conversation that was rational. "Why didn't you contact me afterward?"

"I couldn't. You couldn't know. They would have… killed you if they had known. It was easier to let you move on and think I was dead just in case something did happen. It was safer for you not to know-." John threw a lamp across the room, shattering it against the wall before turning back to the window. "DAMN MY SAFETY!" He growled out, "Where did you go?"

Sherlock swallowed, "Nearly everywhere. Moriarty had people in almost thirty-two countries. I traveled… a lot. Used many different allies until I finished it." He watched the doctor. "You couldn't leave something anonymously? Hell, left your damn hat at the doorstep or something?" He sighed rubbing his eyes, still not completely believing he was alive or that he was standing only a few feet behind him.

"I tried… once. I had someone slip you a note, a friend of a friend, was supposedly supposed to slip a note into your pocket that said, 'Don't give up.' After that I discovered that you were being watched. If you had known I'd lived…" He shook his head. He couldn't bring himself to say it.

"They would have killed me. So is that why you did it? Jumped off the bloody roof because you tried to keep me safe? I found Moriarty. Lestrade didn't believe a moment you were a fraud after that. He even punched Anderson in the face after he made a comment about he was glad you were gone." He whispered feeling tears come back again. "I never stopped… believing… even when you told me to…" The phone conversation was etched into his mind like a burning scar.

"Not just you," he said, in a toneless voice. "Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…" He shook his head. "It would have been easier if you'd believed me." John whipped his face. "No… I would have still felt like someone ripped out my heart and thrown it off a building." John laughed picking up a bottle of whiskey from behind the window curtain and taking a swig.

"Why did you come back Sherlock? I'm sure there was plenty of other that you had to see or hell, you most likely found someone else that you loved on your travels." John put the bottle back down, letting the whiskey burn his throat. "I came back because it was finished. And I was tired of living a lie, rather ironically, since that is what I was accused of in the first place. I had to be accused of being a fraud to become one. And, I thought you'd want to know. From me, before the news hits the media. Which it will. Soon."

John had run out of tears, he slid down the wall taking in Sherlock, piece by piece. He hadn't changed. "Oh yes, I'd have loved to see the broadcast. 'Sherlock Holmes! Alive and kicking!'" He snorted collapsing all the way. "I don't know whether to tell you to go to hell and leave or kiss me and stay here or… or just… I don't know." Sherlock kneeled in front of him, the most sorrow filled eyes.

"I'll do whatever ask me to do, John. Whatever you ask me to… I'll do it, no questions no rebuttal. Just please understand that I am… so very… very sorry." Sherlock said, he didn't know if he could reach out and touch the man. He wanted to scoop him into a hug and never let go. The taller man honestly could say that he hadn't felt the touch of a human being since John. God, he had missed him.

"Do you… have a place to stay?" John whispered, his eyes closed as he leaned against the wall. Sherlock cleared his throat, "I spoke to Mrs. Hudson briefly, she told me where you were. She wants me to come back. Supposedly she misses us…" John opened his dark eyes to look at him, he hadn't taken a tan at all but his hair was slightly longer. "Just… don't go away again." John said softly and Sherlock took him into his arms, not caring if he smelt like an alcohol store. "If that's what you want… I'll never leave you."


End file.
